


Waiting on That Sunshine

by arthur_pendragon



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: And Succeeding, Arthur Trying To Be Seductive, Canon Era, Kissing It Better, M/M, Oblivious Merlin, Oral Fixation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 17:33:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15913008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthur_pendragon/pseuds/arthur_pendragon
Summary: Arthur pulls off Merlin’s fingers with a wet pop, holding his gaze steadily.





	Waiting on That Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [schweet_heart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/gifts).



> fill for a prompt at Kinks of Camelot, on LJ!
> 
> I don't know if the fill is any good but nevertheless, I hope you enjoy it!!!
> 
> OBVIOUSLY the song that I think ought to be listened to during the read is [Kiss It Better - Rihanna](https://youtu.be/49lY0HqqUVc). _Obviously_.

Arthur has very pretty eyelashes. They’re gold and thick, and fan out across his cheeks when he’s glancing down, like he is now. Merlin’s kind of glad Arthur isn’t looking at him, because he’d probably do something embarrassing, like _moan_ and shatter the tense silence that seems like it’s teetering on a precipice and might be knocked over by the slightest of sounds from him—a breath escaping his nose or the loud gulp of his throat—to make Arthur realise he’s doing something completely outrageous.

Of course, Arthur ruins all that by looking up that very instant.

Merlin bites his lip to avoid exhaling—no, he can’t, he’ll die if he breathes, what if Arthur _stops_ —and he knows he’s flushing and that he can’t stop his obvious arousal from shining through to his expression, but Arthur continues to be inscrutable as he sucks on Merlin’s fingers, as if it’s something he does as a chore. Wake up, piss, suck on Merlin’s forefinger, breakfast.

It isn’t even an injury worth paying attention to. Merlin had lived up to his reputation (Arthur’s carelessly-asserted impression) as an incompetent, bumbling manservant by fumbling the searing pot in which the stew for the night was bubbling, and he’d had to catch it with his bare hands to prevent a hungry, sleepless night in the damp forest for both of them. Sacrifices were the cornerstone of his life, after all. He hadn’t _burnt_ his fingers or scalded them in the stew, he’d merely singed them—it’s the kind of pain you forget about after a moment’s pity for yourself, which was why he’d not made a single sound beyond “Bollocks!” but Arthur had lunged at him as if he’d cut a limb off or drunk poison, and pulled him towards the log on which he was sitting, leaving the pot askew, abandoned on the embers.

Arthur pulls off Merlin’s fingers with a wet pop, holding his gaze steadily. Merlin feels like a prey in a predator’s sight. A deer facing down a lion. Arthur’s mouth, that fucking gorgeous pink mouth that Merlin’s dreamt of kissing ever since he first heard Arthur say _Tell me, Merlin, d’you know how to walk on your knees,_ forms an o and then he blows on Merlin’s spit-slick skin, making Merlin’s knees quiver and his nipples harden.

It was just the first three fingers that were “injured”, but then Arthur spreads Merlin’s hand by pressing a thumb into his palm and then he takes the pinkie into his mouth and it’s the most captivating sight Merlin’s ever beheld—Arthur’s cheek glistening in the firelight with the wet from Merlin’s other digits as he pulls and breathes around the rest. There’re obscene sounds filling the air now, as if Arthur’s sucking on something much thicker and longer and the visual that that comparison puts into Merlin’s head viscerally shoves the air from his lungs and he tugs his hand from Arthur’s grasp, blushing ridiculously red.

For a minute they breathe, hard—Merlin in more than one way—staring at each other. Merlin’s hand hovers in the air between them.

Arthur doesn’t utter a word. Merlin’s not inclined to do so either, cock straining against his breeches as if a single whisper will have Merlin coming and coming.

Then before Merlin can talk himself out of the worst decision of his life, he reaches out and presses down on Arthur’s full lower lip with his thumb.

Arthur’s mouth parts obediently.

Neither of them looks away from the other for the minutest moment. But Arthur’s eyes flick to Merlin’s breeches as he leans in to welcome Merlin’s thumb past his lips, and Merlin could swear that the corner of the cabbage-head’s mouth tilts up in a _grin_. There’s certainly some mirthful light in his gaze now. Merlin’s cherry-red blush worsens as the humiliation overtakes him. Fuck. What’d he been thinking? Arthur does this all the time, he performs overtly sexual gestures with the most unselfconsciousness while anyone around him with half an imagination (usually just Merlin) trips over their feet (Merlin has unwieldy feet) and can’t focus on anything for the rest of the day (he also likes to torture himself).

He tries to take his arm back, and promises to himself that for the rest of his life he’ll forget he was nearly about to spend in his smalls from something _Arthur_ did to him. And if said prat ever tries to use it as ammunition in his mockery, well, Merlin misses his mum anyway. She’s due for a months-long visit. Arthur will find someone else to pester to tears in the meantime.

But then Arthur _chases_ after his hand, lips parted, tongue shyly peeking out, as if he wasn’t expecting the withdrawal. Merlin inhales shakily, the view of Arthur’s shining mouth and pink-gold firelit tongue enough to dizzy him, and it’s loud enough to shatter the silence that had previously only been filled with—with smacks and squelches.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, low and almost as a moan. He’s frowning. “Merlin. I’m sorry. I wasn’t laughing at you. I wouldn’t.”

Merlin stills, and his prince takes the opportunity to sidle closer down the log to him, to kiss his fingertips and the sensitive skin where that glorious, marvellous pot, bless it, had scorched him. He’s so close. All Merlin can see is Arthur’s face now. The hair falling over his forehead, those infuriatingly golden eyelashes, his pout as he continues to kiss the red, singed skin.

“Merlin,” Arthur says again. “Look at me.”

Merlin does. Arthur looks debauched. His voice has gone hoarse, just like it would’ve if he’d been mouthing at Merlin’s—no, don’t think about that.

“I’m like that, too,” Arthur whispers, drawing Merlin’s wet hand down to press against the chainmail right over his—fuck, fuck _fuck_ —

Merlin shamefully comes then and there, in his pants like a boy right on the cusp of adulthood. He might’ve also made some sort of keening noise while his prince dragged him into his arms, some mutilation of Arthur’s name that Arthur breathed his appreciation of with, “Yeah, that’s it, for me, you look so good—”

A bead of sweat travels down Arthur’s neck; Merlin spots it, head resting under Arthur’s chin as it is. Licking it up is no great effort, since Arthur himself is the one who did away with any pre-existing boundaries they might have had. The thought then occurs to him that the oblivious, overt behaviour Arthur regularly displays around him, and him only, was perhaps intended to _seduce_ him, and that this might have been the culmination of Arthur’s frustration. In Merlin’s defence, a month into his service, Arthur had taken to spreading his legs _wide_ while seated, and stretching often, groaning and showing off his form, and asking for baths twice a day, making Merlin undress him _thrice_ a day. Merlin had just assumed that Arthur had grown comfortable around him.

He’ll tease Arthur about his awful, marginally-successful seduction techniques later.

Right now, he’s got to do something about Arthur’s mouth—he’s just taken a sip of the scalding stew and hurt himself with the most mischievous grin, and Merlin needs to kiss it better.

**Author's Note:**

> <3 I'd love to know what you thought!


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